


You've Got To Have Bypasses

by PandaFlower



Category: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (2005), Naruto
Genre: Hashirama as Zaphod Beeblebrox, Izuna as Trillian because that shit's hilarious, M/M, Madara as himself as Arthur Dent, Tobirama as Ford but gayer, hitchhiker's guide au, pray for Mito she shouldn't have to put up with this, there are not enough of these
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 04:44:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19738567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandaFlower/pseuds/PandaFlower
Summary: Space is bullshit and Madara wants off this ride. Tobirama can stay though.





	You've Got To Have Bypasses

Madara is too numb from shock to be properly listening to— to whatever drivel this oversized, grey, slimy, bureaucrat of a humanoid mushroom considered poetry. Not like Tobirama who freely made derisive noises and disgusted faces, writhing in his bonds like he was trying to escape the blather. Escape is probably all he’s thinking about; not like Madara who is occupied by the near past more than the future.

Madara is also too numb to properly contemplate how little he actually knows Tobirama, how so much of what he thought he knew about him was a lie.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t _blame_ Tobirama, per se. He chooses to believe Tobirama was his friend as much as he could be. Tobirama saved his life. _Tobirama couldn’t save—_ ah, but even that, Madara can’t bring himself to blame him for. 

Madara knew it wouldn’t have been possible.

He feels like he’s watching everything from outside himself, almost, reeling so hard he’s come untethered. He barely registers the chill of the metal slab behind him, the sticky-rubber straps that bind him to it, the oppressive stink of fetid water where cautious eyes on stalks peek out, too curious for their own good. There’s an audience of yet more humanoids with disgustingly mushroom textured looking skin, arrayed in the shadows of the room and eagerly bent over the rails in the levels above, as if they were enjoying the impromptu monologue of nonsense.

_Earth is gone._

Zetsus, Madara recalls the nifty guidebook Tobirama shoved in his hands to distract him saying, were barely sapient beings, extremely callous, hiveminded, and obnoxious in nature, and were theorized to be well aware of the torture most of the rest of the galaxy considered their idea of poetry. Most of the rest of the galaxy did not dare ask to confirm this theory; the galaxy was divided on which would be the worst answer.

(“They have no imagination,” Tobirama explained, scowling, down in that boiler room while praying for a signal. “No sense of rhythm, or rhyme, or the empathy necessary to be properly emotive. Most of them can’t even _spell._ ”

Hilariously, in a slightly hysterical way, Tobirama seemed the most aggrieved about that last bit.)

_My home is gone._

“So, you intruders now have two choices,” the Zetsu bureaucrat concluded with a snap of his booklet. “Either die in the vacuum of space, or… tell me what you think of my poetry.”

“One of your stanzas was literally just repeating the word ‘mother’ ten times, all using ten different erroneous intonations,” Tobirama unhesitatingly critiqued. “Do you even know what a stanza is?”

The smart thing to do, the _practical_ thing to do would have been to lie through his teeth. Lie, and smile, and used some semblance of manners, and hope to hell and all its levels the Zetsu are so moved they agree not to kill them.

_Izuna is gone._

“I think,” Madara interjects sharply, “it’ll be a lovely anecdote in your eulogy.”

The Zetsu frowns at him, and it would be thoughtful were his eyes not otherwise dull and flat. “And why’s that?”

“Because I’m going to kill you,” Madara said blankly. He was going to kill all these mushroom bastards. With his bare hands if need be.

“Oh, okay,” Zetsu said agreeably. “In that case; THROW THEM OFF THE SHIP.”

Mushroom hands pull them off the slabs, Madara bellowing and thrashing like an angry cat all the while. He thinks he manages to get one in an eye but the Zetsu are damn sturdy, whatever they’re made of, it barely flinches. He and Tobirama get tossed into a bare room and the door sealed behind them. Madara slams a fist into it in a moment of rage, then swears at the jarring pain rattling up to his elbow.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic,” Tobirama is all but chanting as he flutters around the room, poking at lights and fiddling with anything that looks fiddle-able. “Does this do anything? No, none of these do anything. Okay, okay, maybe—”

“Tobirama,” Madara called, anger draining away, leaving only exhaustion. “Leave it.”

“Just give me a moment! I’ll get us out of this, I’m not—”

“Tobirama, you’ve done enough.”

Tobirama froze, turning to him cautiously. Madara rethinks what he said long enough to realize how it could be taken, and sighed. He held out a hand. If he’s going to die, at least it’ll be with a friend.

“You’ve done enough,” Madara repeats. “You tried. I’m grateful. So grateful. More than I have time to say. Just— come here.”

Tobirama takes his hand, gazing at him with so much emotion Madara cannot parse.

“Madara—” Tobirama tried to say something but it’s drowned out by the hiss of the airlock opening.

Space is so cold.

Madara grips Tobirama’s hand tight and closes his eyes, feeling Tobirama squeeze back.

He hopes it’ll be quick.

He barely has time to think that before something pops loudly, like an enormous soap bubble, and then gravity takes hold of him and he’s tumbling onto a hard floor. The new room is brightly lit and clean, all soft lines and soft edges, a stark contrast to the Zetsu’s ship.

He’s pretty sure this isn’t the afterlife.

He has to swallow back the urge to cry, mixed emotions churning in his gut and forcing a tell-tale prickle in his eyes that he blinks away.

They weren’t dead.

What they were was— 

“Tobirama,” Madara said carefully.

“Yes, Madara?” 

“I think I’m a sofa.”

“Now that you mention it…”

Screaming was the proper response for this right? Tobirama was the space-faring expert, apparently, Madara was just following his lead!

Thankfully, the effect of whatever it was wears off quick. Madara’s traumatized.

Oh god, he’ll never be able to sit on a couch again, probably. He can’t help but cling to his bathrobe and towel, certain he’ll be haunted forever by remembering what it felt like to be cushions that were and weren’t him, separate limbs but somehow he could still _feel them—_

“Well,” Tobirama interrupted with his usual thoughtless disregard of other people’s situational trauma, “that was bracing.”

Madara caught himself rolling his eyes fondly, and paused. He— really couldn’t be mad at Tobirama for lying to him, not really. Not after Tobirama’s desperation to save him. Whatever dishonesty lingered between them still, Madara didn’t actually doubt Tobirama felt genuine regard for him. Which is why he braced himself and said, “Tobirama, we really need to—” 

A happy sigh from behind him.

Madara whirled around.

“Yo.”

A… robot.

As if the day couldn’t get any more weird.

The robot was big, bulky, and built on rounded lines with an enormous bulbous head, it was silver head to toe with a blinking dark eye, the left of which stayed closed. Its legs were stubby, and its arms were long and slightly gangly. All in all it looked quite cartoonish. Except for the probably a weapon being pointed at them.

Could the day not get any worse? Just for one second? Please?

“I’ve been ordered to escort you to the bridge, so come on.” The robot gestured at them move along.

“Uh,” Madara said, glancing at Tobirama who just shrugged and went for it. Fat lot of help he is in Madara’s minute of need. Of course, getting closer to the robot meant noticing its other hand was holding a dog-eared book with an unmistakably lurid cover and— 

Great. They’re being taken prisoner by a robot who reads porn.

The day _can_ get worse.

Madara really, really wants a solid hour to curl up in a ball and scream his anguish until his voice broke. Maybe, also, ten minutes to talk to Tobirama because gods they had so much they needed to talk about.

The interior of the spaceship was soft and cheery, all rounded lines, soft white light, and pale browns, the occasional potted plant in a corner; the platonic ideal of a non-nauseating waiting room. Or so Madara assumes is the point. Kudos to the architect, Madara’s urge to throw up had nothing to do with the interior design and everything to do with inner turmoil.

And the sighing doors. The sighing doors he could do without.

“Why are the doors sighing?” Madara demanded.

“They’ve been programmed with GPPs by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation,” the robot replied, already paying more attention to its book than them.

“ _GPP?_ ” Madara mouthed at Tobirama.

“Genuine People Personalities,” Tobirama explained. “Worst idea had since the invention of the universe.”

“I’m a prototype,” the robot said with asshole amounts of cheer.

“We can tell,” Madara snapped.

The robot gave him a lazy look over its book. “You’re from a natal space exploration society. No, you can’t.”

“You—!”

“Don’t take it personally,” Tobirama calmly grabbed Madara before he could lunge. “It’s a staple of Sirius Cybernetics that all their GPPs be incontrovertibly annoying.”

“I think that hurts my cybernetic feelings,” the robot says after a few seconds.

“Go back to your porn,” Tobirama told it. 

Madara fumes his way right up to the last sighing door, latching onto an emotion, any emotion softer than grief, right up until that door opens and he’s greeted with a sorely missed face. A sorely missed face attached to a sorely missed person decked out in a ridiculous baby blue jumpsuit. 

“ _Izuna,_ ” Madara breaths, the strength going out of his knees, except _no._ No, he couldn’t collapse, he lunged forward and grabbed his brother in a bear hug that he hopes conveys all the worry and love and sheer, heart-pounding relief he feels to hold him again. Like he thought he’d never be able to. “ _You’re here._ ”

Madara could cry. Again. Izuna was _alive_ and _here_ and maybe that was a concern all its own but at least they could work through it _together._ Him, and Izuna, and Tobirama; all the precious people he couldn’t live without.

“Whoa,” Izuna… laughed? “Good to see you too! It hasn’t been that long since the party, has it?”

Party.

Party?

That stupid costume party Izuna dragged him to shortly before disappearing, actually literally, off the face of the earth with some disreputable flirt to see his ‘spaceship’?

Well, perhaps in hindsight it wasn’t entirely the innuendo Madara took it for— but still!

Izuna’s taste in men was going to kill Madara one day. From sheer aggravation!

Then the subtext hit and. Oh god. Izuna didn’t know.

_Izuna didn’t know._

How was Madara going to tell him?

A broad hand clapped on his shoulder, startling Madara out of his panicked reverie. Wouldn’t you know, it was that disreputable flirt, still handsome and carefree, long brown hair left loose. Madara doesn’t know his name.

“Hey,” he cried, big grin stretched across his face like it wasn’t punchable. “I know you! I think. I didn’t know you were friends with my semi-half brother!” He turned to pout at Tobirama. “How come you never introduce me to your friends?”

Tobirama rolled his eyes. “And die of shame from them knowing we’re related?”

The Disreputable Flirt pouted back.

“Semi-half brothers?” Madara managed around the lump in his throat. A lump made of all the emotions he hadn’t had a chance to cry out yet.

“Oh yes,” Disreputable Flirt nodded seriously. “We share three of the same mothers.”

While a part of Madara’s brain herniated trying to figure out the logistics of that, another part retained just enough control of his autonomic functions to smile weakly and make frantic ‘ _get me out of here'_ eyes at Tobirama. 

Tobirama sighed, “Hashirama. I need a drink.”

Hashirama. Huh. Madara privately resolved to only ever think of him as Disreputable Flirt.

“Oh, okay!” Hashirama beamed. “I have just the thing!”

Madara will have to do something nice for Tobirama later. If the bastard kept racking up favors like this Madara would have to marry him to pay them all back.

“Anyway, thanks, Kakashi!” Izuna said, grabbing Madara’s hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” the robot waved it away. “I’m busy now, this is the good part.”

“You can literally download and process those books in nanoseconds,” Izuna said, unimpressed.

Kakashi humphed. “That’s heathen talk.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Izuna repeated, “anyway, Madara, you will not believe how cool this ship is!”

“I’m sure,” Madara weakly agrees, mustering up a smile because he is happy to see Izuna again, and he is reluctant to upset him right now. Madara needs time to handle his own shit before he can deal with anyone else’s right now. It’s selfish but there it is. “Tell me about it?”

“Sure!” Izuna laughed, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. “Here, check out the kitchen!”

Madara makes the appropriate noises of engaged appreciation through the demonstration of various science fiction fantasy gadgets, even managing some genuine emotion for the lightsaber bread knife. Lightsabers are pretty cool even in mini bread knife form. Truth be told though, Madara’s off kilter enough that Izuna picks up on it within ten minutes, trailing off concernedly, mouth puckered.

“Madara?” Izuna steps close, laying a hand on his arm. “Are you alright?”

“I— uh.” What can he say? That their home is _gone?_ That all their friends, their family, are _dead?_ That they are likely the very last of the people of Earth? “Sorry,” Madara manages, clearing his throat. “I, uh, _we,_ that is Tobirama and I didn't have the smoothest journey here. I mean, that’s kind of an understatement. I’m just, I’m tired, Izuna, tired and sore. That’s all.”

And then Izuna was hugging him. Madara leaned into it, hugging just as fiercely back.

“Sorry, I thought maybe a distraction would help,” Izuna mumbled.

“It’s okay, I knew what you meant.”

“You wanna go back to the bridge? There’s plenty of places to sit,” Izuna offered. “And I have aspirin. Brought a whole bottle when I packed just in case space medicine isn’t human compatible.”

Madara chuckled, “I could go for aspirin and a sit down. I—” A soft thump on the floor. They both looked down. A pair of mice stared back, each clutching the end of a single, long strand of black hair. The mice scurried away into a nearby crevice before they could finish gathering their wits about them.

“Were they in my hair?!” Madara shrieked. Gross. And kind of strange, considering...

Izuna all but fell over laughing, the only thing saving him from face planting being a hasty grab for the countertop. “Pft! I always did say you could hide everything except the kitchen sink in your hair! When was the last time you brushed it?”

“Shut it!” Madara flushed. “I don’t need your sass!” 

“Okay, okay,” Izuna wiped away a tear, biting his lips in the worst attempt to stifle a grin ever, “I’m sorry I laughed. Somewhat.”

“Just give me the aspirin already,” Madara grumbled. Madara would even forgive the hushed snickers as long as he had something for his head ache. Body ache. All over exposed to the chilling void, near death, and acute stress ache, really.

Two pills. One refreshing glass of water. And because the universe had ceased to feel merciful, one abruptly rocking ship blaring warning klaxons.

“Oh shit, that’s not good,” Izuna said, alarmingly calm. Madara wanted to scream.

They ran back to the bridge to find Hashirama fluttering around the control board and Tobirama pointedly and angrily hip checking him away from various buttons and levers.

“What’s going on?” Madara demanded, stumbling into a couch as the ship rumbled.

Hashirama spun around to grace them with a wide, cheery smile. “Hey, you two! Would you believe it, we ran into some company. They don’t seem pleasant so I vote we launch some missiles. You guys want to launch some missiles? Everyone in favor of missiles say aye!”

“Shut up, Hashirama,” is what Tobirama says into the disbelieving silence.

Izuna looked up, as if searching for patience. Ha, good luck with that, Madara thought, you were the one who wanted to hitch along with the guy— “Computer, what’s going on?” Izuna asked the ceiling.

...okay, maybe Madara is projecting more than a little here.

“Yosh! I’m Gai, your shipboard computer! I’m pleased to report a youthful fleet of a hundred Zetsu battleships! They’re sending us a message!”

Oh god, the computer spoke in exclamation marks.

The screen over the control board/super computer flickered on and a red headed woman in a smart suit standing next to a suited Zetsu appeared. She didn’t appear to be best pleased about it, giving her companion askance looks.

“This is Vice President Mito Uzumaki. Am I speaking to the…” she made a disgusted face, “kidnapper of the president?”

“That’s me,” Hashirama whispered loudly to the room. “I kidnapped myself.”

Tobirama made an equally disgusted face. Madara echoed it. This flighty asshole is a president? Of _what?_

“Surrender the stolen vessel at once or we will take action as defined and permitted by section 1-8 of the Galactic Interstellar Space Bylaws—” Uzumaki slammed her hands down, scowling sharply. “Oh for goodness sake, Hashirama, this is ridiculous. You are the president of the galaxy. Come back now and stop this nonsense!" 

Madara needs a whole five seconds to parse that entirely unwelcome load of knowledge.

...Izuna was joyriding around in a stolen vehicle with the fucking _president of the entire galaxy!?_ _Did he hear that right?!_

On second thought, he wasn’t that surprised, it _is_ Izuna. His precious disaster of a little brother always did have a nose for the most outlandish trouble to be found in his vicinity.

Hashirama smiled at Uzumaki, blew her a kiss, and ordered the ship into hyperspace. 

Welp.

This was going to be Madara’s life now.

Dragged around space by these goddamn inconsiderate aliens.

Madara slumped back on the couch, dizzy and aching and just really longing for a nap at this point, tuning out Izuna’s excited whooping and Tobirama demanding some sanity out of his, uh, ‘semi-half’ brother or whatever. Personally, Madara stopped expecting sanity sometime around Tobirama literally beaming them off planet with a tacky thumb ring but he understands Tobirama has a different view of sanity.

Tobirama must feels his gaze, glancing over mid argument long enough to soften around the corners of his eyes and mouth before glancing back at his brother who’d taken the opportunity to flirt at Madara’s brother and scowled anew. At that point he just gave up in disgust and came over to slump next to Madara, their thighs pressed together and shoulders knocking.

“This could be worse but nothing presently comes to mind,” he muttered.

Madara snorted, “That’s real reassuring.”

“It wasn’t meant to be, but thank you,” Tobirama said, then sighed, letting his head drop onto Madara’s shoulder. “It would be worse if you weren’t here.”

Madara suddenly couldn’t swallow. “Oh?”

“I’d miss you,” Tobirama said, far too honest and blunt for Madara’s battered, grieving heart to take.

“I— probably wouldn’t be missing you seeing as I’d be dead,” Madara managed, also blunt but for more tactless. “I mean!” He sighed. “I don’t know what I mean. I’m too tired to think.”

Tobirama brushed their hands together, as if he was thinking of holding Madara’s. Madara might even let him. “We can talk about this later if you like.”

“I’d like that,” Madara agreed.

“Hey, Tobi!” Hashirama called, holding up a shiny, translucent blue cube on a chain. “I’ve got something _interesting_ for you.” He says _interesting_ the way someone else might say _highly illegal venture that is sure to get us all killed and/or thrown in space jail for the rest of their lives._ Only, with excitement.

Madara sincerely hopes they manage to survive long enough for there to be a later, he really, really does.


End file.
